Heroes
by LadyElwood
Summary: Disclaimer: All of this belongs to Tolkien. Basically, it's a little post-Quest piece that grapples with Frodo's emotions in the Undying Lands. Enjoy :)


He was dying.

It was an inexorable fate, like the ticking of a clock towards the hour. In earlier years, he had pictured it as a sudden affair, harshly unexpected, resulting in excruciating pain and torment.

But it was quite different. Almost like the sure decay of a fallen rose petal, or the covering of fresh footprints with snow, or the gradual fade of a candle into oblivion. It had a sort of peace about it, not unlike waiting for the sun to disappear beneath the horizon, thus welcoming evening. And, as each season waned, he progressively weakened, his body descending into a dark realm. The realm from which he would never wake.

Frodo Baggins was dying.

The weariness that consumed him took hold of his every bone; ever-present, like some gentle shroud slowly eating away at his youth, his soul. _This, _Frodo told himself, _must be old age. _Though he was relatively young; seventy-three in hobbit years, _which was younger than Bilbo, much younger, _he mused, gazing out at the window. Though he had remained bed-ridden for- three weeks? Was it that long? He couldn't keep track anymore- the view remained the same. Tall, up-lifted oaks, polished with the sun's golden touch. Birds sang in those trees. He enjoyed waking to their softly lilting tones, a comforting sound in a world where comfort would soon be a thing of the past.

At first, he had been overwhelmed with a crushing, excruciating sadness that ebbed and flowed inside him like some great, impenetrable wave, seeping throughout him. He had been reduced to a weeping, wretched wreck, wandering through a land of dreaming and waking, heedless of time and space.

Yet now he was quiet. It was more peaceful than sad, he reflected, more like waiting for the coming of winter rather than waiting for the end.

Frodo glanced about the room. Ghosts followed him here; in his dreams, they spoke to him. The ghosts of his dear cousins, Merry and Pippin, laughed and played at his bedside. Often they would extend their arms out to him, proclaiming between laughter, 'Join us! Come play with us!'

And Frodo would reach out a hand, groping desperately, crying out 'I want to play! Please let me play!'

And then Bilbo would enter, voicing his confusion and dismay, hurrying to his cousin's side to offer comfort; and the ghosts would disappear.

Though he saw Sam's ghost the most. Previously, he had viewed his servant's kind yet seemingly distant face, hazel eyes glinting with mirth as he stood silently, clasping Frodo's hand; often he would utter words, such as 'Don't worry, Mr Frodo. You'll be fine, Mr Frodo.'

However, now it was much different; instead of seeing his servant, Frodo would hear the click of the gardener's shears, a steady and continuous rhythmic beat outside his window. Frodo would rush to the window, calling, 'Sam! Sam, where are you? Sam! Please! Sam!' And the clicking of the shears would continue, out of sight, yet tantalisingly close, beckoning to him.

Frodo closed his eyes and rolled over in bed, long, pale fingers delicately plucking at the frayed end of his pillow. The scent reminded him of something; the scent of the pillow… the lavender scent…

And then he was seven years old again, clutched against his mother's bosom, weeping passionately into her arm.

'Mamma! Mamma!'

'Shush, darling. Mamma's here. Shush, poppet, there now. You're safe with Mamma. Shhhhhh. Mamma's here.'

'M-m-monsters! Under the bed! M-M-MAMMA!'

'There are no monsters, darling. There's nothing under the bed except your dressing gown, poppet. Shhhhhh. There now, baby. Shhhhhh.'

And then his tears became soft hiccups, and his breath came in great, rattling gasps; and he clutched tighter to his mother, placing one tiny hand in her weathered, brown one as he slowly relaxed. The scent of lavender from his mother's chest tickled his nostrils, and he smiled slightly, allowing his mother to gently wipe the tears from his baby face. He drifted into sleepiness, and as he descended into slumber, the pleasant aroma of lavender remained with him, lulling him to unconsciousness.

A single tear spilled over onto his cheek, and Frodo bit his lip to suppress a wave of sobs. Though it was years ago, the memory was as clear to him as if it were yesterday. His mother's sweet, warm face had stayed with him every day since, grinning affectionately, just out of his reach. He had cried for her, as he had cried for the Shire; for as pure and beautiful as Valinor was, as refreshingly wonderful, as angelically pleasant, it was nothing like the Shire. Nothing like the rolling green hills, the gently greying dawns, the apple-scented autumn twilights… his home.

The home that had been so ruthlessly torn from him.

His thoughts drifted to later times; times of the Fellowship, when they would camp under the stars and share stories of their homeland. Underneath the sky they would laugh together; four entirely different races, bound together on one unlikely quest that would save them all. Pippin and Merry had entertained them all with stories of the Shire, and the many customs that Frodo now yearned for. Legolas had always listened with polite interest, often asking questions at intervals. Aragorn had been a silent, comforting presence, often cracking rare smiles at a select few of Pippin's recounts of the Shire. Gandalf, dearest Gandalf, would sit deep in thought, watching them all with a protective eye, half-listening to their light conversation. Sam devoted the entire journey to caring for his master, providing all manner of blankets, food and reassuring words for Frodo's comfort. Boromir, the arrogant yet surprisingly gentle man, would jest with Frodo's cousins, telling of his own grand city back home. Gimli, the dwarf, would occasionally share a tale or two of his own; his stories sounded similar to the ones that Bilbo had told so many years ago, and had always filled Frodo with a nostalgia that he could not describe.

The tears came freely now, and Frodo sniffed a little. Their voices still echoed in his mind, and he longed to see their faces again; smiling comfortably, speaking to him, like they had done long ago.

With fondness, he recalled Strider's wedding, now years back. There Strider had stood, standing proudly amidst the colourful array of garlands and decorations that the Gondorians had provided. Queen Arwen had stood beside him, beautifully clad in a silver gown, glowing with pleasure and peace at last. Sweet music had sounded, bringing with it the cries of thousands of joyous subjects of the city. Frodo had cheered along with the rest, his heart gladdened at such a beautiful scene after months of turmoil. He had entwined his fingers in Sam's own, and smiled with glee as about him the festivities continued. For the first time then he had felt happy.

Frodo grinned through his tears. He could still hear them now, voices of mirth breaking the silence of his bedroom. There he had felt like- well, like a hero.

Yes. He and Sam had felt like heroes. Like they had conquered the world, had achieved their mission. The humbled praise and affectionate words that those around them had given them had made it hard to believe that they were merely two young hobbit lads from a sleepy town in the Shire. They felt like true heroes.

Frodo Baggins was dying.

And he would die a hero.


End file.
